About four years ago, when I was still living in a small town in Saskatchewan, I happened to notice a little robins nest inside an old hanging flower basket. I was so enamored by the gorgeous blue, almost turquoise colour of the eggs. It surprised me, as the basket was hanging from an old laundry post and was quite low to the ground. I immediately worried that something would happen to the eggs, or the parents would be easy prey to cats or other predators.
In short, I became kind of obsessed with these eggs and their parents, and watched them either from my kitchen window or from a spot outside. Because of their location, I was able to take a few pictures, but tried my best not to interfere with the parents duties and was sure to never touch the eggs or the nest.
It was May, and over the course of that month, I watched the eggs hatch (one never did) and the babies grow, the Mom and Dad come and go; feeding and keeping their young warm, sometimes they'd squawk at my son if he was playing on the swing-set in the backyard (doing what bird parents do to protect), until one day the babies were no longer in the nest. I could see them standing among the grass, waiting patiently for their food to be brought to them; their Mom and Dad used the empty dirt lot beside our house to find worms and bugs.
And then, one day, I could no longer spot the babies in the grass. Or see the parents worm-hunting in close proximity.
Just like that, their distinct presence had disappeared; blending into the trees and sky from which they came.